


Rodeo

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Brothers, Kink, M/M, No Plot, OOOh sex, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29488200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: Oh my, I had almost forgotten this one, tucked away in a corner...So, Sam likes to roleplay.There might be petticoats next time.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	Rodeo

Rodeo

Kitty Fisher

“Man, will you stop with the pacing?”

“What? You mean this pacing?” Dean thumps his boots into the carpet, walking up and down like he’s stomping bugs.

“Yeah, dumbass – that pacing.” But Sam’s almost smiling, so that makes it okay. 

Dean stops, turns slowly on his heel, pursing his lips as he surveys the scummy room. A different room, a different town. Same crappy no-star motel, same shit going down. Hell, they hadn’t even found this week’s spook.

“Sam – you gonna be buried in that book for long?”

Sam tilts the book up, mimes counting the pages he’s still got to read. “Yep.”

“Even though the guy who wrote it made most of that ‘local haunting’ shit up?” Which just earns him a sideways look. “Okay, but don’t you feel, you know, just a little bit stir-crazy?”

“No. Not really.”

“Great.” Because he is. Dean can feel his blood itching, scratching at his veins. “I gotta get out of here.”

Sam looks up. “’kay.”

Which isn’t what Dean wants, but it looks like it’s all he’s going to get. One of the unwritten rules he lives by is a simple one: don’t ask. Don’t take advantage. So he shrugs, as if there’s never been anything else on his mind at all. “Right, I’m gonna grab a beer, have a look around. You want anything?”

“No, I’m cool.” Sitting on the bed, Sam smiles, sweet little brother, bangs flopping into his eyes, long, muscular body dressed in denim and flannel, a blanket over his feet. He looks lazy, diffident – so stupidly sexy it hurts Dean to look at him.

“You need a haircut.”

The snort of laughter’s also a dismissal. “Have fun out there.”

“Yeah, right - party on, dude.”

Still griping to himself, Dean pulls on his leather jacket, slips keys into one pocket, loose change into another. He checks the mirror, then glances back, but Sam’s already got his nose re-buried in the book. Research is a jealous bitch. Dean shakes his head - man, just sing that song, loud and clear.

As he walks over to the door, Sam’s voice follows him, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!”

Dean pauses, just long enough to smile with deep insincerity – and to flip his brother the finger.

::

He drinks three beers, checks out the talent, and smiles at the girl serving him, who’s cute and blonde and petite in a totally sort of anti-Sam way. He charms his way into her break, and a kiss in the parking lot with the promise of a lot more – but she breaks it off to answer her cell, and he wonders why he’s bothering. Because the least of it is that what he wants isn’t either blonde or petite.

Boots crunching on gravel, he gives up, not turning back even though she calls after him. Walking across the lot he thinks on the idea of what he really wants, because, well, he’s kinda hazy on what that means – though there’s not much room for introspection what with all the frying demons and fucking girls (who are sometimes demons) and Sam (who sometimes wants a little brotherly loving, and sometimes doesn’t, but is rarely technically a demon).

He thinks that probably what he needs is a job in a haunted brothel. Which makes him snort with laughter. Oh, yeah. Fucked in every way.

Which takes him back to Sam.

Back at the motel, he lets himself in, easing the door open, slow and careful. But the room’s empty. His phone vibrates gently. He pulls it out, thumbs buttons to bring up a text:

The Rodeo. Midnite. S.

Yeah, Sam, be mysterious, why don’t you? The Rodeo? Could be anything. But… There’s a phonebook in the kitchenette, and he goes through, leaning one hip on the counter, sipping a beer while flicking though to the listings. When he finds it, he grins, because man, Sam has a good nose for hick towns with extra-curricular entertainment.

Shrugging out of his jacket, he pulls off his shirt before rooting around in a drawer. He finds a white tee that’s shrunk at the Laundromat, and pulls it on, feeling the fabric pull snug to his skin as he tucks it in. Black leather slips over the top, thick and heavy, the zippers rattling softly as it drops into place. He glances in the mirror and catches himself smiling. Which turns into a grin that stays locked in place until he’s in the car and Aerosmith’s rocking the suspension as he turns onto the blacktop.

He checks the address, anticipation cranking up a notch as he pulls into a lot packed with pickups and 4x4s. Finding a space away from the low, long building, Dean locks up, settles the collar of his jacket and heads for the brightly lit doorway - pausing for a moment to admire the sign that arcs above it. The Rodeo, man, who’d have thought. The grin tries for a reappearance, but the bouncers are checking him out, and well, it’s not a good plan to laugh at the establishment – not when the help’s way bigger than you are, and look to be packing as well. They nod him through, and he pays up, amused that it’s a girl at the counter – a girl who’s way too angular to actually be a girl. Pretty though. And she likes him, so he smiles back, amiably, before checking in his jacket. A boy this time. Pretty too. Dean smiles, grins once when the smile gets returned with added mileage. He takes the small numbered ticket and lets his fingers just linger… It’s been way too long since he did anything like this, and excitement’s like a bubble under his ribs. That Sam’s here too? Yeah. Just… yeah…

Another door and another doorman. Dean gets his ticket checked and his hand stamped with an inked lasso – and walks in, with the itch in his blood heightening every sense. Sam, he thinks, all that research? Seems like it’s actually good for something other than turning up reanimated corpses and homicidal ghosts

Techno assaults his eardrums. Wincing, he looks around, eyes narrowed. Low lights, a wide, well-stocked bar and probably every queer guy in a ten mile radius. Putting on arrogance like an added shirt, he walks on, feeling the eyes checking him out, ignoring the few attempts at making eye-contact. He’s focused – and not on strangers. Because he’s just seen what he’s looking for and, like iron drawn to a magnet, he heads for a discreet door set into the back wall.

Inside, smell hits him first: amyl, sweat, cheap spirits, lube and sex – not in any particular order. It’s a heady mix, and Dean lets it flood his lungs as he closes the door. Even more than the smell, the visuals are intense: denim and leather, light flickering on swathes of slick skin. In the middle of the floor there’s a boy on his knees, sucking two cocks, one after the other, holding both, his expression rapt. As Dean stares, a man walks past him, his cock hanging - long and impressive - out of his jeans. He looks. Dean shakes his head, just a tiny not now and the moment is gone.

Hooking his thumbs into his belt-loops, Dean starts to walk, not advertising exactly, but certainly not keeping the goods under cover. At least there’s muscle enough in his arms to keep most of the clientele happy with just looking. There’s some kind of theme thing going on. Or a costume party. He passes a bald Dracula getting a rim-job from an angel and grins, and walks on by with a nod of appreciation, because man that’s a skill the angel has going on.

He strolls on, then he sees the cowboy - and it’s as if there’s no one else in the room. Because over in the far corner, Stetson tilted down to shadow his eyes, a man is waiting. And Dean knows that under that brim, green eyes are watching him.

Man, Sam’s an eyeful – long and lean and sexy as fuck. One boot-heel is kicked back, resting on the wall. Both thumbs are tucked in the low-slung waistband of his faded, worn jeans, and his hands hang relaxed and loose, fingers casually framing today’s special offer.

Dean straightens his back, wipes the grin from his face and struts over. “Hello, cowboy.”  
  


“Howdy, stranger.”

Okay, so it’s not Sam, it’s the Lone Ranger.

“Nice hat.” Dean slides his gaze down to where the zipper curves around the cowboy’s groin. “Nice package. Looks like you’re mighty pleased to see me.” Narrowing his eyes, Dean leans in a little, one hand on the wall, which is vibrating with the pumping bass line. “Big hat, big guy – everything else comparable, cowboy?”

Sam lifts his head and smiles, slow and wicked. “You askin’ to find out?”  


“Yeah, guess I am.” Dean breathes in fast, lets it out slow. “So, what you got in mind? You feel like a little ropin’, mister – or just some straight down hard ridin’?”

Sam’s heel drops to the floor, and even above the pounding techno, Dean can hear the jangle of metal as it spins. He swallows. Spurs. Fuck…

His reaction must be clear, for, just for a second, there nothing but hunger laced with triumph on Sam’s face. Then he slips back into role. “Yep, guess ah found me some spurs, boy. You wanna test ‘em out?”

Damn, he’d laugh – but this is way too hot for humor. And besides, Sam’s looking at him like he’s the best thing ever to hit town. “Spurs, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Wow. “There any private rooms here? Or you planning on ridin’ me bareback in the middle of the floor?”

“Room – out back.” His lifts a hand, and Dean sees a key dangling from the long fingers. “All paid for, darlin’.”

Darlin’? What the… “You are one sick fuck.”  


“Just the way you like it, dude.” Dean shakes his head and grabs for the keys – which are whisked out of his reach. “Now, now. Ask nicely, sweetheart.”

“I am not,” and Dean spits the words out through clenched teeth, “your sweetheart!”

“Damn pretty though.” Sam slides a hand around Dean’s waist and pulls him close. “Sure you don’t fancy petticoats and a hint of rouge?”

“Yeah. Totally sure, you freak. And in case you get any ideas, cowboy - think about payback… Shit…” He groans softly as the hand slides under his shirt and strokes slowly along his waistband. “Sam, what is it with you and fucking roleplay anyway?”

“I like it. So, pard, you up for this – or you gonna consider the possibility of not getting any.” The hand pulls in sharply and Sam’s grinning as his cock presses into Dean’s hip.

“Man, that’s harsh.” Dean licks his lips. “Okay, but not a girl, not this time – please?” He shivers as Sam bends his head, tilting as he moves down to Dean’s throat, and licks the skin there, once. “Please?”

Teeth bite, scraping across where the skin’s thinnest, where the reaction slides straight down to Dean’s cock – which he knows, the bastard, but hell, yeah, do it again. But he doesn’t, instead Sam straightens and, with a flash of white teeth, slides back into whatever fantasy his head’s spinning. “Sure. If’n you ain’t got no petticoats, darlin’, then I’ll just have to fuck you like a boy.”

That works fine. Oh yeah. Dean nods and slips a little extra slow into his drawl, “Hey, cowboy, you gonna let me share your bunk tonight?”

Which looks like it really works for Sam. “Yeah.”

“Always wanted me a cowboy…” Dean puts a little smoke in his voice. “And you are one big guy – you like it easy, or you more of a roughrider?”

“Depends if you need a little breakin’...”  


“Maybe I do.” And Dean shivers, flash-imaging himself in a bridle.

“Yeah, guess I c’n see that…Come on, or do I need to rope ya?”

Now, maybe. Dean swallows, dry-mouthed. “No siree, I’m comin’ right along.”  


Sam peels away from the wall, one hand still holding Dean close. Bending his head, he kisses Dean’s mouth, warm skin just tracing over skin, then, hooking his fingers in Dean’s waistband, he leads off, tugging Dean along behind him. They get glances and comments. Sam ignores them – and shakes his head at all the offers, until Dean feels like he’s on a meat-rack. But he’s been there before. Got off on it, too. Hell, with Sam he gets off on most things – right now even the warmth of knuckles against his belly and the whole being pulled along thing is going for him, bigtime.

No one guesses they’re brothers, and that’s an added kick. No one knows what they do – and no one cares. For so long he’s lived his life wrapped in secrets, that this added one (which is, way the biggest and darkest - as hey, he really doesn’t think being lynched at dawn would be any kind of fun) is just something else. Another layer. That it confuses him is, well, just one of those things. Sam confuses him, end of story. But, as he walks ahead, tall and relaxed (and even while tripping out on the idea of being some dickhead Texan cowboy), he’s the reason Dean exists. The reason Dean makes it from day to day.

His reason for getting up – and man that makes him snort with amusement, and shrug an apology when Sam frowns. The hand tugs hard on his waistband and suddenly he’s in Sam’s arms.

“Is this funny?”  
  


“Nope.”  
  


“Good, now get in here.” The door behind him opens onto a small room. There’s a bed and a sink, no window, just light spilling from a single dangling overhead. It smells of bleach and stale spunk.

“Nice.”

He walks through and hears Sam close the door behind them. A hand strokes the back of his neck. “Hey, pretty boy, why you still got your pants on?”

“Guess I’m real slow, cowboy.”

“You need your ass whipped?”

Which makes him shiver and his cock leak hungrily as he turns, watching as Sam takes off his hat and tosses it onto the room’s one and only chair. His shirt gets undone, one pearl button at a time - pulled away from pale, honeyed skin. Breath trapped painfully in his throat, Dean licks his lips. Whipped. Man… Sam can throw him, every time…

“Come on – I brought a belt…” Sam’s gaze flickers up and he’s so not as calm as he looks. But, fuck, Dean thinks about the belt… and Sam’s clearly thinking too, for as he unsnaps his pants he grins, the twist of his lips slow and wicked. “Or you want the spurs?”

No choice. Dean nods. Wonders where all the oxygen’s gone. Part of him wants to make a joke of it, like hey, is it my birthday? But he can’t quite break the moment, the connection that’s there, linking him to Sam, to his brother, to the one who understands – even when he doesn’t need this the way Dean does. Hell, scraps are better than nothing – especially scraps like this.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“What d’you think?”

“I think you’ve still got your pants on.”

Which makes him feel stupid. Clumsily he strips, boots, socks, jeans, boxers and finally the tight white shirt, dropping it all onto the floor until he stands, naked and hard, a droplet of precum glistening unsteadily on the tip of his cock. “Pants? What pants...”

“Yeah… I like it better when you do as you’re told, pretty.” Sam puts a boot up on the chair, and reaches down to unstrap its spur. “So get on the bed.”

As Dean walks across the narrow room, the linoleum sticky under his feet. On jelly-legs he climbs onto the bed, which gives softly under his weight, the mattress completely fucked. Lying on his back, he can feel where broken springs are pushing up to poke at his skin.

Lying quite still, his fingers clutching at the sheet, Dean watches as Sam walks over to him - and tosses the spur into his belly. He tenses as it lands, cold and heavy, making his muscles quiver. The straps tickle his skin as it shifts slightly with every breath. He doesn’t touch it, or look. He keeps still, watching Sam’s eyes. Waiting for whatever he’s planning, or wanting. Right now? There’s nothing Dean wouldn’t do for his brother. Nothing. It’s as if there’s nothing in the world but the two of them – and the connection that binds them, brother to brother, man to man.

It’s more precious than anything. And something he will never push, or risk, or demand more from. This is enough. These are enough. These moments. When he’s Sam’s.

Sam knows it all too. He watches, his eyes hot while his big hands skim down his own belly to unsnap his jeans. The zipper peels apart and he reaches in to tug his cock free, shifting denim down so he’s standing there, cock and balls hanging thick and heavy over his pants, his hip bones pale and sharp, his torso thick with the muscle that never shows when he’s dressed. No one now would think him skinny. Or lanky. 

Casually, he picks the spur off Dean’s belly. Turning it, holding the strap in one hand and spinning the rowel with his other. It makes a soft metallic whir as it turns. One that lifts Dean’s skin in swathes of gooseflesh.

The rowel’s spin is stopped when Sam presses it to Dean’s left nipple.

He arches up, biting his lip. “Fuck…”  


“Mmm, I sure am going to.”

“Sam…”

“More?”

“Jesus, yes…”

Sam rolls it, the tips of the metal wheel rolling over one at a time, not hard enough to break skin, just hard enough to make Dean groan when it spikes back and forth, slow and mean over the tightly erect nub.

“Slut.”

“Sam… please…” Dean’s hips flex upwards.

The pain ratchets up. Dean gasps, looking down to see metal pushing down hard, the wheel’s spokes just breaking skin. The sight’s as arousing as the feeling, as arousing as Sam just taking what he wants – and offering Dean what he craves. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for his brother. Except give this up.

He gives thanks every single day, that he doesn’t have to. Not any more. Hopefully not ever.

The spur eases up as Sam gets bored with that nipple and moves to the other. The same deal, delicate tracery followed by a harder push that leaves Dean breathless, shuddering on the bed, close to begging like a whore.

When it moves to spike its way down his belly, he almost comes.

“No you don’t.”

And he doesn’t – because the rowel spins, once, before being held to his shaft, the spiked wheel resting just under his cockhead. He doesn’t come. Or breathe. Or do anything but stare up at Sam, with his eyes wide – desperate as he’s ever been.

“Better. Now, darlin’, I think I owe you a hard ridin’.” Sam grins – Robert Redford on crack. “Hold this in place – tight now.” With his other hand he takes hold of Dean’s wrist, tugs until his fingers unlock from the sheets, just so he can shift them to the length of Dean’s own cock and the hard press of spur. “Hold it right there.”

“Yes...” Dean gulps. Holds on obediently - even though his own touch is weirdly alien - keeping the contact tight, just on the edge of pain/pleasure. All the while, he watches Sam undress. All the way down to skin.

Except, when he’s done, he puts the boots back on. Which is enough to make Dean groan, and for his cock to pulse eagerly in his hand. That Sam then reaches over and plucks the spur from Dean’s fingers – and that he then straps it back onto his boot, is just… beyond anything. And Dean couldn’t speak if was paid to – all he can do is wait, while the scratching in his veins claws him raw.

Sam moves, slow and easy, with all the time in the world, to rest one knee on the edge of the bed. He’s not a cowboy anymore. He’s Sam Winchester, in boots and spurs.

“Turn over.”

Dean turns. Burying his face in his arms as the bedsprings squeal and his legs are pushed apart.

Sam’s not one for fancy stuff. He kneels in place, one hand resting, big and warm on Dean’s side, the other slicking some sort of lube into Dean’s ass. Dean just closes his eyes and tries not to whimper too pathetically as he’s fingerfucked by those long, long fingers. One, two, three, just getting the job done without finesse, until he pulls them away, leaving Dean gasping, gaping, almost shuddering with need as Sam moves, climbing up to straddle Dean’s thighs.

Hot skin, weight pushing him into the bed. Boots against his legs, the spurs jangling softly, not touching him yet. Dean tenses, but a hand smoothes down his back, and Sam’s cock presses between his ass-cheeks. He can’t spread, can’t do anything but keep his legs together as Sam’s knees tighten around him as he lifts up to angle his cock, pushing into the tight cleft and unerringly finding the spot. Another shift of muscle, and Sam leans in, putting his weight behind it as he gasps, and breaches Dean’s body.

All the way. In one slow, slow move that makes Dean arch up, mouth open, silent with obscenities as he’s opened, stretched and filled. Sam pauses, tucks his knees in – and then rides hard.

Dean shudders, but he can’t even hump the bed, though he tries until Sam takes his wrists, just pins him into place, and leans over him. “Don’t come…” And Sam shifts so the rowels spin and slide against Dean’s legs, the metal cold and unforgiving on his skin, abrading – the kick of pain sweet and heady. 

He doesn’t come. He bites the sheets instead. Gasping with each thrust, sweat stinging his eyes, he takes the fuck – incapable of anything else with Sam leaning on him, holding him down and pounding into him. Dean knows how tight he must be. Knows it from the burn that’s turning him inside out, and blinding him. When Sam jerks, curses and comes, it’s too soon, but so good. With cotton filling his mouth, Dean feels every spurt into his ass, every twitch of Sam’s body as he spends himself. And just falls, sprawling where he is. 

Sam stays there for what feels like forever. His cock is soft when he finally groans, and lifts up, pulling slowly from Dean’s ass. Dean can only lie there, panting. Screaming in his head, because he’s so close…

“Dean, turn over.”

Yeah. He manages. Turns, blindly, awkwardly, and slams a fist into his own mouth as Sam kneels on the bed to bend down and swallow his cock.

He takes it as permission and howls, his whole body jerking as he comes, the intensity pain and pleasure, as if he’s bleeding his whole self into Sam’s wide, hot mouth.

Afterwards, he feels Sam’s body drape around him. He even feels the kiss that Sam plants on his neck. But that’s it. There’s nothing else - he slips into sleep, Sam’s breath warm on his skin.

:::

He wakes with someone knocking on the door.

Sam’s already moving, calling out. “Give us five – then we’re out of here!”

There’s a muffled comment from the other side of the door, then nothing,

“Come on, Dean, time to rise and shine.”  
  


“Man…”

“I know.” Sam pulls off his boots, then comes to sit, quite naked on the edge of the bed, his eyes warm as he watches Dean claw his way up until he’s sitting. Only then does he reach out, touch Dean’s skin – cupping his cheek, with a look on his face that Dean can only think of as tender. “Hey, that was good.”

“Yeah.” Dean cracks a smile back – or something like one.

“Let’s get back to the motel, grab some sleep – then talk.”

“Talk?”

“Dean, that’s talk – not get tortured, so less of the alarm, okay?”

“Sure.”

Sam sighs, and shakes his head. “Sometimes you are just so difficult to fathom.”

“Me?” Dean snorts incredulously. “What about you, Mr Ambiguous!”

“I am?”

“All the way.”  
  


Sam nods. “Guess neither of us are very good at the whole talking thing.”  
  


“Duh…”

Grinning, Sam stands up. “Come on, we can grunt through a football game – then we’ll feel better.”

“Isn’t it baseball season?”

“Who cares – there’s bound to be something on the TV. Or maybe we can just grunt at each other instead. You know, create a new language?”

“One that’s just ours?”  
  


Sam nods. “Yeah. Winchester-speak 101.”

“College was so bad for you…”

“I could play professor?”

“What, you mean with the hat and the robes? Sam, what is it with you and costumes?”  
  


“I like ‘em.”

Dean sighs. “Okay, whatever.” He pushes to the edge of the bed, only wincing slightly. “Just remember – no petticoats!”

“Right.”

“Or rouge…”  
  


“Sure.” Sam pulls him close, looks so deep into his eyes that Dean shivers. “Just us. Will that work for you?”

“Oh, yeah. All the way, brother.”

The end.


End file.
